


As Man and His Sword

by the_ragnarok



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Canonical Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:44:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eames is the governor of a besieged city and Arthur has to be a hero and make everyone worry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Man and His Sword

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Siegefic for the_ragnarok_d](https://archiveofourown.org/works/187802) by [cobweb_diamond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobweb_diamond/pseuds/cobweb_diamond). 



> ...So what happened was, one day, I mentioned on Twitter that I want an AU where Eames is the governor of a besieged city and Arthur is his assistant/leader of the Resistance. Because Eames can't fight the siege without an actual civil war happening. Anyway it was just an excuse for exhausted, worried Eames and brave Arthur getting heroically wounded and kissing during wartime.
> 
> Then Gav [wrote some for me](http://cobweb-diamond.livejournal.com/387317.html#cutid1), because she's awesome like that. So then I had to write the rest, and here it is.

The days wore on. Eames did his level best not to visit the places where they stored grain and oil and wine. Either there was pitifully little, or there was more than there should be, and Eames couldn't bear the storekeeper's guiltily averted gazes.

Everything was wearing thin. Their defenses, their bodies, certainly everyone's patience. Few people even pretended to do their jobs, instead looking out their windows, to streets grown empty. To the walls.

Eames doesn't go up on the walls any more. He used to, to get the lay of the field, to think.

"To self-flagellate," Arthur said, and Eames pretended not to hear him.

Even Arthur's worn down. Eames looks at him, where he's sitting, head drooping, quill nearly falling from his fingers. There's a sliver of skin showing where his shirt rode up. That place right above his thigh is showing, the one where Eames' fingers used to fit precisely. It's too sunken now.

The governor's household is the best fed in the city. Eames dismisses that thought. There's nothing he can do about it right now.

Let him help where he can, then. He shakes Arthur's shoulders. "Go home," he says. "Get some sleep."

Arthur's eyes are more alert than they should be, all things taken into account. "And you?"

"I'll sleep later." Baron Nash's people will be here come morning to parley. This time, Eames will have to give them an answer. "Go on. You're not doing any good, snoring into the parchment here."

To his surprise, Arthur obeys, rising on unsteady legs. Eames resists the urge to offer him a hand. Arthur would not take that kindly.

Arthur looks at him, scanning his face like he's looking for something there. Eames would gladly show it if only he knew what it was. "Go home," he says again, soft.

Arthur nods and turns away, for once without argument. Eames supposes that's something.

He sits back at his desk, digging in the piles of records. There has to be a solution. There has to be.

~~

Perversely, it's the sudden darkness that makes Eames jerk awake.

Likely it's not sudden, as such. By the chill of the air, the sun set quite a while ago. Eames straightens in his chair, cursing softly, rubbing his eyes and blinking awake.

The room is empty, which feels wronger than it should. Arthur's often in there with him, on one pretext or another. Mostly to do his job. On occasion, to do what Eames has come to think of as Arthur's other job. But Arthur's not here. He sent Arthur home, and Arthur went.

Something is niggling at the corner of Eames' mind.

It's not just quiet, it's too quiet. Where have everybody gone? Opening his door, he sees no guards in the hallways, hears no commotion from the lower floors. It's as if everybody's awaiting something.

His eyes are just getting used to the darkness when something painfully bright comes at the window. Eames ducks, stamps on the fire arrow as it falls on the floor. He picks up the burnt shaft and stares at it.

 _Bloody hell_ , he thinks, helpless. _Arthur, what are you_ doing?

He makes his way to the walls slowly. The streets are deserted. Everyone who isn't on the other side is hiding, and Eames can't blame them.

 _They shouldn't be hiding_ , says a treacherous voice from inside his head, but Eames hushes it. Valiantly protecting his people is well and fine, but he can't help them if he's executed for treason. Until the king decides between the barons' claims, there's no safety except in dithering, and precious little safety in that.

There are no guards on the walls. Either they left to join the battle or they turned their backs and ran. Eames isn't even sure what to hope for. It can't end well, either way.

Eames doesn't take up his sword and armor to join in combat. Neither does he turn back, go to his office or his bed, to await further news in the morning.

He sits on an upturned stone, instead, while the roar of battle outside his walls goes on.

~~

By the placement of the stars, Eames knows it's two hours before dawn when the battle ends.

The clash of steel against steel and the sharp whistles of flying arrows abate. There are still the cries of men and horses, but even those are somehow subdued.

Somebody hammers on the gate. Eames blinks. He may have fallen asleep, standing up. "What is the watchword?" he yells without thinking, remembering the days when he had to go on guard duty, same as all the young men. When Arthur and he –

"Dreaming," says a hoarse voice from beyond the wall. "Let me in, Eames."

It's not the word, but Eames pushes the leaver to open the gate anyway, because it's Cobb shouting from the other side. Eames would know his voice anywhere.

One of Eames' own guardsmen, Shears, is standing to Cobb's right. He must have been the one who knocked, because Cobb's own hands are occupied.

There's something terrible about Cobb's expression. Something even more terrible about what he's carrying. Eames' eyes keep gliding right over it, seeing blood and a flung hand under dirt-stained cloth. He can't make his brain put it together, can't bring himself to understand what it means.

"Mal is dead," Cobb says, and for a minute Eames is – abhorrently – glad, because if that's Mal's body in there (Mal who brought him honeycakes and ruffled his hair and laughed, _Mal_ ), than that means it's not –

Shears moves the cloth away to reveal Arthur's face, and Eames holds on to the wall.

"She made me," Cobb says, all but babbling now. "She made me take him instead, and then she died, Eames, Mal is _dead_."

 _Mal is dead_. It echos in his mind like a dull, heavy bell. More of Eames' men are gathering around him, now, looking at him. Waiting for orders. Shame Eames can't think of any to give them.

One, perhaps. Eames looks at Shears. "Take him." He points at Arthur's – at Arthur. Mark is standing behind Eames to the right. Eames turns to him. "Take Mr. Cobb home, Mark. See he gets some rest."

Shears eases Arthur from Cobb's hands. "What are you..." Cobb trails off, staring at Eames with huge, unseeing eyes, arms drooping by his sides now. "I have to get him to safety, Eames. Mal. I promised Mal. I promised – "

Mark takes Cobb's arm, firmly but not unkindly. "Come on, Mr. Cobb."

"I promised," Cobb says, even as he's lead away.

Shears doesn't look remarkably discomfited by Arthur's weight. Arthur's not a light man, all muscle and dense bone, and Shears spent the entire night fighting. "Where to, my lord?"

"Home," Eames says, suddenly tired beyond words. "Take him to my room. Ask Yusuf to take a look at him."

Shears looks at Eames unblinkingly. "Technically, sir," he says, "he should be charged with insubordination, at least. Possibly treason."

"So could you, Shears." Shears nods. Eames sighs. "Do as I said. We'll deal with the rest later."

"As you say." Shears walks a brisk pace, carrying Arthur away.

Nash's men should be there in two hours or less. Eames has no fucking clue what he'll tell them.

~~

Yusuf finds him an hour later, when Eames is back investigating the godforsaken records.

"My lord," Yusuf says from the doorway.

Eames closes the book with a creak of the leathery covers. He can't bring his eyes to focus anyway. "How are his chances?" he asks bluntly. He's been there when Shears peeled Arthur's clothes away, the miserable excuse for chainmail that barely covered Arthur's stomach. The long sword-slash, black and ugly with dried blood and worse.

Yusuf hesitates, then shakes his head. "You've seen your share of gut wounds, Eames."

Eames is a betting man. He's good with odds, and these odds are not good.

Fuck this, then. "You didn't have him moved, did you?" Eames asks Yusuf, rising from the chair.

Yusuf snorts. "Excuse me, have you seen the state of him?"

Right now, Eames is wishing he hadn't. Yusuf can be calm about that. Yusuf had been treating the wounded and the dying since before Eames learned to handle a sword. It's Eames who feels like the world is coming apart at the edges. Silly of him, really. There's a war, and people die in those. Eames has seen his share of battles, too.

Still. He goes to see Arthur, because there's absolutely nothing else he can even think to do.

"Wait outside," he tells Shears, who has taken it upon himself to stand watch. "Tell me if anybody spots Nash's men." On an afterthought, he adds, "Do you know if Mark came back?"

Shears nods. "He stopped by. Cobb seems to be holding up okay."

That sounds unlikely, given how Cobb looked when Eames last laid eyes on him. "Send someone to stay with him. One of the maids, I think. And somebody needs to see to Mal's funeral. Have - " It sticks in his throat, an order that he would have concluded with _Have Arthur see to it_ on any other day. Eames swallows and says, "Make sure someone sees to it."

Shears nods and closes the door behind him. There are no chairs, so Eames sits on the side of the bed, careful.

He needn't take too much care, anyway. His bed is ridiculously large. The space between Arthur and the edge of the bed is large enough for Eames to comfortably sprawl in, if he wanted to. If he could.

Yusuf did a good job on Arthur's wound – as good as can be expected, in any case. There's blood seeping through, staining the bandage a bright red. It's probably not a good sign, except that there aren't any good signs, not really.

Arthur's eyes flicker open. He makes a sound that Eames can't decipher, but his eyes dart to the side of the room, where Yusuf left a jug full of – water, as it turns out. Perhaps they're running low on wine.

Arthur can hardly sit up enough to drink without choking. Eames fills a cup and dribbles some over his mouth, slow, letting Arthur take in the water at his own pace. Some drops spill over Arthur's cheek when he turns his face away. Eames puts the cup aside and wipes Arthur's face with his sleeve.

"Nash's men will be here soon," Eames says, because it's the only thing he can think to say.

Arthur tries to speak, but it turns into an ugly cough. Eames, unthinking, puts a hand over his mouth. "Don't strain yourself." It comes out softer than he means for it to.

Arthur glares at him for a moment, then his eyelids start drooping. Eames moves his hand to Arthur's forehead. No fever that he can feel. That's a good sign, isn't it?

Then there's a knock on the door. Eames goes to open it. Shears is there, looking grave.

"Is it Nash?" Eames asks.

"Nash and Browning, lord," Shears says. "They're both here. They want your decision."

Of course they do. "Wait," Eames says. He closes the door. Arthur is unconscious again, it seems. Eames only hesitates a moment.

He bends to brush a soft kiss against Arthur's lips. It's a liberty, but Arthur used to allow him much more than this, back when they were both carefree boys. It's hardly likely to hurt now, and Eames needs all the encouragement he can get.

"Get my mail and my sword," he tells Shears. "I'll meet Nash and Browning's men as soon as I'm dressed."

But when the servant bearing his arms comes, Eames changes his mind. "Put those down," he tells the man. His name is Gottfried, he hasn't been in his service long. But he'll do what Eames needs him to. It's not a difficult task. "Go home. Tell everyone working here to do the same."

"My lord?" Eames grits his teeth against Gottfried's questioning voice.

"Go home," he repeats slowly. "And tell everyone to do the same. Upon my orders."

It has to be the stupidest idea that he's ever thought of. But it's the only idea he has.

~~

Eames can see the first flags on the road, Nash's green banner alongside Browning's golden one. Nice of them to show up together, all one big happy family before the slaughter breaks out. Not today, though. Can't risk the commander's perfect shining armor getting muddy and dented. Eames had a lot more respect for high authority before he became it.

 _That's a lie_ , says a voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Arthur. Eames would shush it, but he's pathetically glad for any kind of support right now, even if it's just from his own memories and wishful thinking.

He allows himself this one moment to be truly angry, all but snarling with it. His city, his people, his – Arthur. _Mal_. None of this should have happen, none of it _would_ have happened if the goddamned barons could stop their blood bickering.

He thinks he can see Nash and Browning now, riding in front of their men. Good of them to come in person. Maybe Eames can challenge them to a duel. One of them or both. He could take Nash, no doubt. Browning, in spite of his age, is good with a sword. Riskier. But inviting a peer of the realm to a duel is as good as declaring open rebellion, and Eames hasn't spent the last couple of months trying to placate them both just to throw it all away now.

No, he'll do something far less likely to work.

Nash and Browning stop a few yards away from the gates, staring. Well, one must be polite, mustn't he. Eames rises and dusts off his pants.

"My lords," he greets them, coming to stand at the gates. At the gates he specifically told the guards to leave open. "What brings you here on this fine day?"

"We've come to end this farce," Brownings says, as Nash blinks and says, "Your gates are open."

"I know," Eames says pleasantly. "Would you care for a game of cards?" He has a pack in his hands and a small table in front of him.

"No," Browning says, "I would like you to state your allegiances." Nash is still looking suspiciously at the open gates.

Eames spreads his hands. "My loyalty," he says, "is to King Saito and his chosen vassal." _Obviously_ , he doesn't add, because he doesn't want Browning to actually behead him there and then.

Browning's watching him with narrowed eyes. "Where are your men, Eames?" That he left out Eames' title is no doubt meant as an affront, but Eames can't let himself get caught up in that.

"Here and there," Eames says dismissively. "Such a lovely day, isn't it? Told them to take a bit of a break."

Nash turns his weasel's face to Browning. "You should go inside," he says, not hiding his sneer very well. "Partake of lord Eames' hospitality."

"After you," Browning says. Eames have seen friendlier-looking smiles on vipers.

"No, I insist," Nash says.

"Won't you come in together, my lords?" Eames puts on his most winning smile, the one that always got him out of trouble.

But of course they wouldn't. Nash and Browning couldn't even agree that the sky was blue, let alone on order of precedence.

"Oh, bugger this," Nash snarls, going for his sword. Browning purses his mouth, and three of his men draw and aim their bows at Nash and his inner group.

This is going rather worse than Eames expected. Or better, he can't quite decide. He's about to say something – he doesn't know what, exactly – when someone comes shoving through the ranks of Nash's men.

"A messenger!" he yells. "A messenger from king Saito!"

Nash and Browning look at each other, then at Eames. "We'll continue this later," Browning says, and Nash nods.

Eames allows the gates to close after them with a thundering sound before collapsing to the ground, shaking.

~~

An hour later, Saito's man comes inside the city.

"My lord," the messanger says, "his majesty has decided the matter, and your city now falls in the realm of Baron Browning's estates. Henceforth you will pay your taxes to him, and he will hear your complains and be in charge of your protection."

Eames inclines his head and says, "Of course." Frankly, he's relieved. He hates Browning, but the man at least has the sense to put his grudges aside once he's got what he was after. Nash, Eames is less certain about, but now they have Saito's approval to go up in arms against Nash, should he choose to be difficult.

It's a little odd, perhaps, that the first thing Eames does after settling the tedious parts of it is go tell Arthur about it. But if that's so, nobody mentions it.

To Eames' surprise, he gets to his room to find Cobb sitting beside the bed. Somebody appears to have found a chair for him. He's holding Arthur's hand and talking in a low, intent voice.

"Is he awake?" Eames says, more bruskly than he really means to.

Cobb startles. "Not exactly," he says. He moves a little, so Eames can take a closer look.

Arthur's eyes are half-open, his face flushed. Eames realizes with a sinking feeling he must be feverish. "Eames," Arthur says, voice low and scratchy.

 _Right._ Eames turns to Cobb. "Leave us," he says, in the command voice he learned by listening to his father. Thankfully, Cobb nods and walks away, muttering something Eames is probably happyier not knowing about.

Eames refuses to feel self-conscious taking Arthur's hand in his. If Cobb can do it, so can he. "Arthur," he says, "how are you feeling?"

"How. Do you think?" He sounds like even talking is an effort.

"So, pretty bad," Eames says. Arthur nods, just barely.

Eames isn't entirely sure what to say, what to do. He has the most ridiculous urge to _order_ Arthur to get better, now, as if that would do any good.

"Eames," Arthur says, and this time it sounds urgent. Eames tightens his hold on Arthur's hand briefly. He isn't sure whether the fact Arthur's not pulling away is a good or bad sign. "Eames. The charges."

"What charges?" It's entirely possible that there's something vital slipping Eames' mind, but he honestly hasn't a clue what Arthur's talking about.

"Insubordination," Arthur says, with a cough that sounds frankly disturbing. "Treason."

For a moment Eames _still_ hasn't a clue what Arthur's on about. Then he blinks. "Arthur," he says, conversationally, "are you entirely out of your mind?"

"Rule of law," Arthur says, and Eames winces. They used to fight over that, silly arguments about things that Eames never imagined would have anything to do with.

For all the times they went around in circles about that, the answer is strangely clear to Eames. "Bugger that," he says. "You were the only one who wasn't a bloody useless twat these last three months." Eames includes himself in that count. By the way Arthur's eyes narrow, he caught that.

But all Arthur says is, "So what now?"

"You get better," Eames says, decisively, refusing to even think of the alternative. "And then we'll see. For one thing, I want you to look at the repair plans for the eastern walls." Just because they're likely to get a little peace and quiet now isn't a reason not to be prepared.

Arthur makes a sound that would probably be a laugh under other circumstances. "Are you. Promoting me?"

"Yes," Eames says. "Anybody got a problem with that, they can take it up with me."

Arthur shakes his head.

"What?" Eames says. "Are you actually refusing me? What do you want, a bloody raise?" He thinks a moment. "I'll give you one, if that's the issue." He'll give Arthur any bloody thing he asked, but there's the problem. Arthur never asks, bloody-minded bastard that he is.

"Can't," Arthur says. "Got no breeding." He gulps in a breath. "Don't have the standing."

Eames looks at him, incredulous. "What the hell are you on about?"

Arthur just stares at him, as if Eames is too stupid to understand common English.

All right, that's quite enough. Eames bends closer. "You will get better," he says, quiet, and it looks like he really isn't above ordering Arthur to do that. "And you will take the role of my asistant, and you will get things done, because that's what you do, Arthur. And if I hear one word of argument from you on the subject, I swear I really will toss you in prison."

Arthur closes his eyes. Eames feels a brief flare of panic – did he say too much, too forceful – but then Arthur's hand is tugging on the back of his head.

So he lets Arthur pull him closer, let his lips brush against Arthur, and it appears Arthur does know how to ask after all.

**Author's Note:**

> ("Said the Sword of the Beseiged" by Nathan Alterman, [bad] traslation mine):
> 
> When you took me in your hand,  
> I laughed my blind laughter  
> And shining, quivered like hail,  
> and as glad tears I shone;  
> For I was with you, alone,  
> never again to be sheathed.
> 
> From the night looks out the star  
> that grew and was polished of evening.  
> The brilliant star of battle,  
> the freezing star of the sword.  
> By its light, our time is coming,  
> and our time is bitter and bright.
> 
> And I am singular, peaceful,  
> and I am the faith and the calm.  
> In your hand I shall not shiver  
> as we retreat to the last wall,  
> and the chosen time is coming,  
> and a star graces me with light.
> 
> I won't thirst for pay or riches.  
> As with you, they are furthest from me.  
> But know this: If I were a maiden,  
> I would now throw my arms around you,  
> And know this: If I were a slave  
> I would kneel at your feet and kiss them.
> 
> This very night, my lord,  
> As you rise, facing hated thousands,  
> As we are, you and I,  
> Pushed to a binding corner,  
> My long mouth shall be crimson,  
> For I'll drink of despair and rebellion.
> 
> My long mouth shall be crimson,  
> And dizzy I'll fly before you  
> And my short lightnings, my lord,  
> Shall be the last light on your face.  
> Until blood shall cover my eyes,  
> And your blood shall cover yours over.
> 
> Then the darkness will fall over us,  
> And we never again shall rise from it.  
> And the star of the stabbed will burn pure,  
> And no man's hand shall make it burn dimmer.  
> And your body shall rest at my left  
> And never, not I will mourn it.
> 
> For in vain did blood cover my eyes:  
> Death's hand reached us ere we started.  
> For like you, I've known all along  
> That we breached an unwinnable battle.  
> But your comrades will know, my lord  
> That as man and his sword we acted.


End file.
